An Uneventful Few Years
by That Old Crone
Summary: Beginning in 1893 with the Clayton Bowles case, Dr. Julia Ogden is finding her footing as Toronto's first female coroner. The professional relationships and personal adventures of a single, independent woman approaching the turn of the century, with a healthy dollop of romantic angst.


March 12, 1893

Julia had been Toronto's first lady coroner for three weeks. In those three weeks she had been called out on multiple deaths, natural and otherwise, but none of those had prepared her for what happened at the Bowles' house, a genteel residence on the outskirts of the city. A drunken Corktown stabbing was one thing; this was another entirely. Too lurid, bloody and terrifying for even a penny dreadful - and on a Sunday, no less. it seemed a kind of final assault on decency.

Mr. Bowles had obviously been the first to die. From the looks of it, he'd been caught off guard while sitting at his desk in the study. One shotgun blast from behind, probably from the doorway; death had been very messy, but she guessed not instant. She winced, made a quick examination of the body for rigor and livor mortis, and was then led by Constable Crabtree to where Mrs. Bowles' body lay.

Mrs. Bowles' death had not been as easy. From the damage to the study door frame and the few pellets of shot in her face and torso, Julia guessed she had run to the study upon hearing the shot and surprised her husband's killer, who then shot at her, presumably with the second barrel, but aimed wide and only hit her peripherally. Mrs. Bowles had obviously run, but between her heavy skirts, her corset, and her un-athletic build her attacker had obviously had enough time to reload the shotgun and catch up to her, as she had been shot a second time at the back kitchen door – this time more shot lodging in the back of her right shoulder, as well as the door frame and wall. The kitchen stunk of burned food; a pot on the stove held something blackened to a char.

Somehow Mrs. Bowles had managed to get out the door, but at the base of the back stairs her assailant shot her a third time. She fell there, and did not get up again as her blood slowly ran out into the wet snow and congealed beneath her. The cold outside had to be factored into her temperature, but the other evidence pointed to her death being at roughly the same time as her husband - only a few minutes' difference.

Julia breathed in and out slowly. She wanted to go be sick behind some bushes, but if there was one thing she had learned from all those vicious governesses and finishing schools, it was how to rein in her emotions.

"There is a third you said, Constable?" She was proud of how her voice came out, almost no tremor.

He nodded grimly. "In the garden, Doctor."

A path led behind a screen of trees, their naked branches allowing her to glimpse three men standing in a clearing. As they drew closer, she saw they were all looking up at something, and then she saw it – a boy, thin and adolescent, dangling from a branch. He wore a thick cabled sweater, and tweed pants just a bit too short for his legs. A shotgun lay discarded on the ground, near a shed that had been left open. The boy's face was terrible, swollen and dark. Something she had only read about and was now before her, horrible and real.

 _What kind of job have I gotten myself into?_ She thought as the gravity of the whole thing hit her.

She walked up to the men – two more constables and a man in a very dour hat, who she assumed to be a detective. She knew Crabtree was a Station Four man, so she deduced the detective must be Murdoch, of whom she had heard enough, good and bad, to be curious.

The detective approached her. "Doctor Ogden, I assume." When she nodded, he extended his right hand. "Detective William Murdoch, Station House Four. I am sorry we meet under such grim circumstances."

"Given our positions, Detective, it was more than likely we would meet in one grim situation or another." He gave a small smile as he dipped his head in acknowledgement. She looked up at the boy. "I can safely declare that he is deceased. Gentlemen, you may bring him down when you are ready."

The constables set off in search of a ladder, leaving her alone with the Detective.

"What do you know about the family?" She asked.

"Not much yet," he replied. "Clayton Bowles Senior is – was – a patent solicitor, I believe. His degree was framed on the wall of his study and all of the paperwork on his desk appeared to deal in machinery patents. There is a family portrait in the sitting room that I assume is the Bowles' – a father, mother, a son, who this may be, and a daughter. We searched the house, but no other body has been found. There is a bedroom which appears to belong to a girl, but her whereabouts are currently unknown. It seems to be emptied of clothing."

As he spoke, Julia analyzed him. Observant, factual, impersonal. No apparent hostility toward her, in fact a refreshing neutrality. She was inclined to approve. "The entire property has been searched?" He nodded. "Hopefully she was away from home. Who summoned the constabulary?"

"Apparently their cook was in the kitchen and fled the house when she heard the first shot. She ran to the nearest neighbor, a farmhouse down the road. They formed a party, came to investigate, and discovered Mr. and Mrs. Bowles."

She was silent for a moment, contemplating. "I'm no detective, but… it seems to me this young man is likely the Bowles' killer. Is that your opinion?"

He looked at her intently and she had the distinct feeling it was her turn to be analyzed. "I try very hard not to draw conclusions based only on initial impressions. After I have gathered more evidence I will be in a better position to reach an accurate picture of what happened."

Julia wasn't certain if she had just been censured. Pushing back her irritation, she stayed professional. "And what evidence will you be gathering? I understand how I approach my responsibilities, but I know little of the order of operations for what you do – I know medicine, not detection."

He seemed surprised by her question. "I… well, first I will note the direction and angles of the gunshots inside the house. I admit I have already formed a hypothesis based on the observable evidence – "

"Such as the damage to the study's doorframe?"

"Yes, excellent that you noticed that, Doctor." He became more animated. "Did you also note the damage to the kitchen's back door?"

"I did." She said, and recounted her guesses about what had transpired.

He smiled, a smile that brightened his eyes, and Julia suddenly realized he was rather handsome underneath his very serious hat and his very serious demeanor. _No, no, Julia_ , she thought. _No thinking about handsome colleagues._ She put that thought in a box and locked it.

"Doctor Ogden, I think it will be very exciting to work with a coroner as observant as you seem to be. That is a very credible interpretation of the available facts."

Inwardly she beamed; she was as vulnerable to praise as any other human. "Well, they did attempt to beat that into our heads at medical school – observe facts and develop hypotheses."

He hesitated for a moment, then spoke again. "I will also attempt to lift finger marks off of the shotgun and the casings." He watched her closely.

"Finger marks?" she asked. "Do you mean like in Sherlock Holmes?"

Now he was really becoming enthusiastic. "Conan Doyle didn't make that up – several people have been researching human fingertip patterns, and the working theory now is that no two people have exactly the same finger marks. My own very limited research supports this idea."

It was suddenly very clear to her why Detective Murdoch inspired both praise and scorn from other members of the constabulary – he was obviously a man of science and thought in a profession that, in her experience so far, tended to value brawn and quick results instead. "Too slow" had been one complaint; she suspected that what he really was, was _deliberate_.

"I would genuinely like to know more about this research, Detective. It sounds absolutely fascinating!" She had quite forgotten to remain impartial and professional – this was too exciting.

Again that genuine, delighted smile. "I can take the boy's finger marks in the morgue, if you would like to see the process."

"I would like that very much!"

An awkward silence descended as they smiled at each other, uncertain of how to continue as they waited for the return of the constables. Julia attempted to continue. "You're obviously an educated man, Detective. Where did you attend university?"

His demeanor changed; the brightness left his eyes. "I… I did not have that opportunity." He volunteered no more information and suddenly found the trees very interesting to look at.

She blushed. _Foot in your mouth again, Julia!_ She tried to cover his embarrassment. "All the more impressive that you've pursued knowledge independently, rather than have it spoon-fed to you."

It did not quite seem to fix things; he was once again reserved and his smile was merely polite. Julia wished desperately to fix the situation, but now all conversational gambits seemed fraught with risk.

Relief came in the form of Constable Jackson with a ladder. "Oi, you lads!" He bellowed as he approached the tree. "Get back here!"

The detective rushed over to assist, which only boosted her opinion, and soon the other constables arrived. Quickly, the boy was lowered to the ground. Rigor mortis had yet to set in, consistent with his death possibly occurring after the death of (she assumed) his parents. It occurred to her that it was possible he had died first, but she thought it more likely he had hung himself in the wake of the murders. His arms and legs were unbound, suggesting he had done it of his own will. She wondered if the Detective had examined the wet snow under the tree for footprints or ladder-marks. Of course he had – a man who conducted his own scientific research would be methodical. She removed his shoes and socks, then noted that livor mortis was found in his extremities, consistent with his having hung for some time after death. That, plus the terrible discoloration of his face and the hemorrhaging in his eyes led her to believe that he had died of strangulation.

Detective Murdoch stood over the body, watching her intently. She thought of Elizabeth Bennet's claim that her courage always rose under intimidation, and so paid him no heed. He could wait.

When she was satisfied, she stood up, knocking wet snow and decayed leaves from her knees. "Thank you gentlemen. They can all be relocated to the morgue as soon as you like." She turned to Murdoch. "Everything I can observe at this time is consistent with death by strangulation via hanging. I will know more after I've examined them all more thoroughly."

Again his polite nod. "Thank you, Doctor."

He turned away, but she called after him. "Detective." He looked back. "Don't forget, you promised to show me how you make finger marks. I'll be quite put out if you don't."

He tipped his head and walked away. She let out a deep breath and headed back to the warm house where the carriage driver waited for her. The bodies would be waiting for her tomorrow morning.

The Bowles family were not the only new bodies in her cold room on Monday. Two young women beaten savagely, and two stabbing victims in laborer's clothes. _The morgue is nothing if not egalitarian_ , she mused grimly.

The young ladies she could do little for – catalogue their injuries, note distinctive marks and bruising, check their hands for evidence, check for signs of pregnancy. One had scratched back at her attacker – her hands were scraped and there appeared to be skin under her nails. "I'm sorry you didn't win," Julia whispered to her. The other poor girl had attempted to ward off blows – her forearms were full of bruises. Older discolorations on her body indicated that being beaten was not a one-time event. Sadness and anger welled up in Julia – those were only natural feelings, but she shed no tears. There were no tears in all the world that would help these girls, but at least she could help bring their killers to justice, and so she catalogued relentlessly. Already she had realized that not all officers of the Toronto Constabulary were equally diligent, so she resolved that she always would be.

The stabbing victims were stripped, possessions noted, wounds probed and measured. One was as clean a stabbing as could be – one strike through the ribs, directly into the right ventricle. A long, thin blade – a stiletto of some sort. Julia suspected that the wielder of this knife had experience in this sort of thing. The other was much messier, a shorter knife plunged repeatedly into the victim's gut. An agonizing death. His knuckles were scraped and inflamed, one eye swollen; a fistfight escalated to murder?

Examination of the Bowles' bodies presented no revelations. She paid the most attention to the boy, most likely their son and murderer. What could drive a child to murder his parents so brutally? She wasn't naïve; she knew respectable families were sometimes anything but. Or was the boy just disturbed? There were jute rope fibers visible on the high neck of his sweater; she picked up her magnifying glass and found a few in the right cuff as well. She mimed tying a hangman's knot and nodded. The young man's wrist would have brushed the rope as he tied it. She wrote this down in her notes. She would talk about it with Detective Murdoch when he came in to take finger marks. The backs of the boy's legs and his buttocks were bruised, not badly but multiple shades were visible. Her guess was that he had been caned, and not just once.

By five o'clock the morgue attendants were washing up for the day. After consulting with the officers who had brought her their reports, the two stabbing victims and one of the young women had not needed full autopsies. The stiletto victim, one Antonio Garibaldi, had been found in a dark alley, no witnesses to be found. The detective was of the opinion that Mr. Garibaldi had run afoul of some underground business associates and paid with his life. "No one knows anything, no one saw anything." The other stabbing, John Blake, had occurred in plain sight of over a dozen witnesses – an argument over a card game.

Jane Edwards, the young woman with the old bruises was, predictably, killed by her husband, who was now sobered up and penitent in jail. "Crying like a damn baby," was the contemptuous report. Edwina Phipps was the young lady who had fought back to no avail. She had apparently been sought after by multiple suitors and had refused to settle on one, leaving multiple suspects to track down. Julia told the detective to look for any sign of injury on the suspects.

She had begun to give up hope that Detective Murdoch would make good on his offer to show her how he took finger marks, but she had no commitments that evening so now the decision was simply – stay in the office and read, or go home and read? Home would certainly be cozier, but the promise of a genuine work colleague was difficult to resist, and the electric lights in her office were far better than the gas lamps in her flat. She peeked outside. The sky was clear, and so she decided she would stay one more hour. There was so much about being a coroner that medical school hadn't prepared her for; at times she felt completely unmoored. Her predecessor was a salty old woman-hater who'd refused to train her, but his notes were on file and they were a rich source of information, both of what to do and what not to.

She had been immersed for half an hour or so when she heard someone come into the morgue. She looked up to see Detective Murdoch hanging his hat and coat at the other end of her bay. He removed a small case from a coat pocket and headed for the cold room without so much as a glance in her direction. She felt a frisson of annoyance and rose to follow him.

"Detective," she said calmly. He spun around, obviously surprised.

"Doctor. My apologies, I assumed you had gone home for the day."

"There isn't really anything to go home for, so I'm simply studying my predecessor's files to gain a better understanding of my responsibilities."

He winced slightly. "Yes, I had heard that Doctor Perkins was reluctant to stay on as a mentor to you."

"That is a very genteel description, Detective. His exact words were 'I'll be demmed if I'll stay in this office and watch it be ruined by a woman!'" She imitated his gentrified London accent, perfectly, Murdoch couldn't help but chuckle. "His exit was most passionate; I'm surprised he didn't break a windowpane as he slammed the door."

Murdoch grimaced. "That is… unfortunate." She couldn't decide if his reaction was sympathy or pity. She abhorred receiving pity.

"It is. But, I assume you are here to take finger-marks from the boy. He is their son, is he not?"

"He is, and I am. Clayton Bowles, aged fourteen years. By all accounts his relationship with his father was not a happy one."

"Not unheard of for boys of that age, though most don't end up murdering over it. Has the sister been found?"

"Yes, she has been living with her grandmother in Winnipeg. Apparently the family situation had been such that they felt it was better for her to be away for a time."

Julia sighed. "Poor girl. Poor all of them."

"Quite. Doctor, I apologize, but I have an obligation this evening and so I must finish this quickly and be on my way."

"Oh, of course! Here, he's number six."

Murdoch looked around. "You've had a full day."

She pushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "I have indeed. The Bowles, two stabbings, and two beatings."

His face was serious again. "This… is a job that can damage one's opinion of humanity."

"Then it's good I never had much faith in it to begin with."

He began to say something, then checked himself and opened up his case. It held what looked like an ink pad. He pulled a blank card from his pocket and set it on the gurney, then lifted Clayton Bowles' hand and firmly pressed his thumb on the ink pad, moving it to ensure the entire finger pad was inked.

"Doctor, would you hold his hand and keep his thumb up? This is always more difficult with a deceased subject."

"Of course." He pressed the inked thumb against the paper and there it was – a finger mark! "May I see? Oh, it's so simple, but genius!" She cried. "And there really are no two people with the same marks?" She returned the card.

He continued to ink and press as he spoke, Julia holding the hand up to assist. "The data samples available are too small to say conclusively that no two people in all the world have the same marks, but my hunch is that finger marks are as unique as our appearances. I will take the marks of everyone involved in the case just to be certain – his parents, the cook, the housemaid, the manservant – but I am almost certain that the facts of this case are what we already suspected them to be; Clayton Bowles murdered his parents and then hung himself."

"There were rope fibers in the neck of his sweater and on one of his cuffs. That would seem to me to indicate he tied the rope himself."

"Yes, I noted those as well. There doesn't appear to be much of a mystery here to solve, really, but I like to be thorough. Sometimes I discover facts that completely upend my assumptions – I try to make no assumptions at all, but that's sadly impossible. So I try to be humble when faced with my shortcomings."

His sincerity was endearing. "That is an excellent philosophy, Detective, and one that I would do well to emulate in the morgue."

He gave her a quick glance of bashful pleasure, which made her happy. She suspected that, like her, begrudging praise was typically all the praise he got, and she decided at that moment to cultivate Murdoch as a true colleague. If she was going to stick it out at this position, she would need allies, like Isaac and Nathan at Bishop's. Her instincts told her Murdoch was an excellent candidate.

He finished taking the marks. "Thank you, Doctor."

"Oh, it was a pleasure. Perhaps I'll add finger-marking to standard procedures here in the morgue. It wouldn't hurt to have the tools on hand; you could simply call to let me know if it was needed."

"That's a generous offer. If you really mean to, I've found Atkinson's pads are best by far. And the smoother the card, the better – but not gloss. The ink smears."

"Are you purchasing these supplies with your own funds, Detective?"

He looked a bit bashful. "The… Let's just say I have yet to convince the department that it's a worthwhile investment. They frown on unnecessary expenditures."

She quirked an eyebrow. "I see. I'd be surprised if I can't find a few pennies in the morgue budget for cards and ink."

He looked shocked. "Doctor, I can't ask you to do that."

"You didn't ask. I offered. Now, don't you have an obligation?"

He bowed slightly, smiling. "I do indeed. Well played, Doctor, but I insist you not use your budget for my unproven research."

"I will make you no promises, Detective." She gave him her cheekiest smile.

His face conveyed good-natured reproach, but he knew he'd been outmaneuvered. He nodded again. "Good evening, Doctor."

"Good evening, Detective." She watched him leave.

Alone and slightly disappointed, she looked around the morgue and huffed at herself. "Julia, what are you _doing,_ spending your evening alone with the dead? Go out and live!" She fetched her coat, pinned on her hat, and headed out into the night, determined to shake off death for a few hours.


End file.
